


damn onion boy

by roseprice612



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Himring, I'm not sure what this is, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Read at Your Own Risk, This Is STUPID, also, it really is, mae and mags bein bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-06-12 07:04:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15334497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseprice612/pseuds/roseprice612
Summary: Maedhros woke with a start.It was the fourth night in a row that the nightmares had come back, so at this point, he didn't think it'd ever stop. At least there wasn't anyone next to him this time.He got out of bed as soon as he woke, legs wobbly and sweating profusely but needing to move. Moonlight streamed in through the window, casting a road of silver across Maedhros' floor, but he didn't step towards the window. The fire, still popping and flickering lowly, caught his attention.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a weird damn shmood and honestly I think I had a point in writing this but its long gone now. (There may be more of Maedhros and the Adventures of Onion Boy but we'll see)
> 
> Maedhros is still healing and not very happy about it, Maglor is a Mom, and Maedhros has quarrels with Onion Boy. 
> 
> Read at your own risk. Entertaining but inevitably very stupid (and slightly angsty).

Maedhros woke with a start.

It was the fourth night in a row that the nightmares had come back, so at this point, he didn't think it'd ever stop. At least there wasn't anyone next to him this time.

He got out of bed as soon as he woke, legs wobbly and sweating profusely but needing to  _move_. Moonlight streamed in through the window, casting a road of silver across Maedhros' floor, but he didn't step towards the window. The fire, still popping and flickering lowly, caught his attention.

The fire always seemed to calm him after nightmares. It was constant. Bright and warm. He'd often been yelled at by his mother in his younger days from his love of fire, and he remembered being banned from bringing anything on fire into the home. The fact that she had to even make a rule like that made Maedhros chuckle to himself.

The fire moaned when he kneeled by it and sent out a wave of embers, almost as if greeting an old friend. Maedhros added a fragment of oak wood and prodded it with another piece. The fire thanked him by roaring up again, catching and licking up the oak. Crumbs of embers scattered on the stone floor, one of which landed right next to where he hovered his right wrist.

It was healing still, and constantly sore. But it  _was_  getting better, that much he knew. He just wished it'd heal faster. He wished he'd heal faster overall.

Currently, it was a strange, transitional time for Maedhros - he was healthy enough to be moved back to Himring with Maglor, but his brothers were off in Eru knows where building their own fortresses. Maedhros was supposed to be leading their forces, but he wasn't quite healthy enough for that. Technically, he was still supposed to be bedridden. He was supposed to be a lot of things. But he couldn't stand being in that bed any longer, no matter how soft it was, and he was beginning to get antsy just sitting around. He wasn't used to healing. He'd always healed so quickly. But this time, the healers were saying he would heal very slowly, having such a crooked spine, having bony, unbalanced legs, having lost a hand, and having lost so much blood recently. His immune system was in crisis.

Nevertheless, Maedhros got back to his feet and stretched his limbs. The darkness the dream had left him had all but faded away, and he decided then that he wanted to do something. Maybe he could ask Maglor for a job. Something they needed help with. He wasn't allowed to lift anything heavy yet, but there was plenty to be done.

He wrapped a thick robe and a cloak about his thin shoulders and tugged on large furry boots to go on his feet. Himring was always cold. Either that or Maedhros was still feeling the aftereffects of blood loss.

The halls were already bustling, and Maedhros suspected the sun hadn't even entirely risen yet. That was another strange thing about this world; the sun and the moon had seemed to appear out of nowhere for him since he'd been in captivity when they'd come to being.

Maglor's door was left open. It was always left open. He seemed like the type of person that'd need to work in silence, but it was actually quite the opposite. He thrived with constant background noise. Maedhros knocked on the open door and paused there to catch his breath while Maglor wrapped up what he was doing.

"Ye- oh, Mae." Maglor looked up from his paper and raised his eyebrows upon seeing his brother. "What are you doing up?"

"I can't sit anymore," Maedhros explained, stepping closer up to the desk. "What's on the agenda today? Can I help with something?"

Maglor pursed his lips and cracked his knuckles, leaning back in his chair. Uh oh. "Mae, you aren't well enough yet to do work. You know that. I'll bring you breakfast in an hour, now go get back in bed."

"Please." Maedhros leaned over the desk and placed his hand on the cold wood. "Please, Kano. I'm so bored I'm going to lose my mind. I need  _something_  to do. Anything."

Maglor thought about it. "Well..." He considered, getting to his feet and walking around the desk. "If you're up to it... I've been looking for a replacement instructor for the new soldiers, the old one has been sick for about a week. You won't be using a sword or fighting or anything, not yet, but I assume you do still remember swordplay and hand-to-hand combat, yes?"

"Of course." Maedhros smiled crookedly, the only smile he had. "Thank you, brother. Thank you. Shall I go to the yard to meet the soldiers?"

"Yes, I'll send word that practice is to begin." Maglor nodded, laying a hand softly on his brother's shoulder. "But Mae, if you feel dizzy or tired or- or  _anything_ , promise me you'll come and rest."

Maedhros rolled his eyes. "Yes, mom."

"I'm serious!" Maglor shouted as Maedhros quickly left the room. "Lord, he's not going to listen to a word I say, will he?"

Maedhros waited much too long for the new recruits to arrive. He wasn't surprised by that - they were new recruits, after all - but he didn't like standing in the cold waiting. His joints had all but locked up by the time the recruits arrived.

"Good morning," He greeted, watching each and every one of them as they filed past. They looked new; not nearly scared enough. Maedhros intended to change that.

"Good morning, sir." One of them said, a young elf with hair the color of a ripe onion. He had a smirk on that said: "If I hear one more comment about how handsome I am, I'm going full force psychopath and stealing a horse". Kind of like Celegorm as a kid. Maedhros stared at him specifically as the rest of the recruits filed in.

"That's 'My Lord' to you." Maedhros didn't falter in his glare. Onion Boy swallowed. "And you're late." Now he addressed the rest of them. "You're all late. What do you have to say for yourselves?"

The group was momentarily silent. They thought having Maedhros as an instructor would be easy. He was supposed to be a recluse, weak, a shamed Noldor. He wasn't even wearing a sword. But he stood firm and looked directly at each one of them until someone answered.

"We overslept, my Lord." A man with brown eyes said, twiddling with his hair. Maedhros raised his eyebrows with disbelief.

"Oh?" He asked. "You overslept? And what would have happened had you overslept while an attack on our fortress was underway? What would you have done then?" He paused, but no one answered this time. "You would have died. That's what would have happened."

"That's a little extreme," Onion Boy muttered to the soldier beside him, who snickered. Maedhros was getting seriously tired of him.

"You." He said pointedly to onion kid. "Come here."

Onion Boy stepped forward and looked directly back to Maedhros, meeting his gaze unfalteringly. Maedhros stared until it was uncomfortable for him, and cleared his throat.

"Where is the pressure point that stops wrist movement?" He asked. Onion Boy, caught off-guard, shrugged. "Where is the pressure points that stop leg movement?" Another shrug. "What about the neck? Upper arms?"

"Look, I don't know. I'm not some fucking healer." Onion Boy sighed and looked away. Maedhros saw the recruits standing awkwardly, looking sorry for Onion Boy. Maedhros almost did too.

"When orcs look to capture or kill their enemies," Maedhros started, "They look for a few key tendons. One," He grabbed Onion Boy's arm, pressed down in the crook of his elbow, "Two," He kicked out his ankles with his heel, "And three," And he grabbed Onion Boy by the throat, pressing down slightly on the jugular veins.

The recruits got exponentially more excited after seeing a fellow soldier be downed with just a few movements and whispered amongst themselves. Onion Boy's friend stepped forward, hand on his sword.

"Let him go!" He shouted, seeing Onion Boy's face turn purple. Oops. Maybe Maedhros was pressing down a little too hard. He let go and fixed his cloak as Onion Boy fell onto his back, breathing heavily and rolling around in the dirt. Maedhros didn't feel sorry for him at all, not like his fellow soldiers.

"As I've already said," Maedhros called, over the whispering. "Learn where to strike, and where your enemies strike, and you may survive. If you have enough skill."

Onion Boy, wheezing on the ground, sat up somewhat. "Is that what happened when you were captured,  _my Lord_?"

Maedhros paled. Too fresh were those memories to be brought up, and certainly not in front of students. His brain was frozen, panicked, and so he did the only thing he could think to do: he leaned over, grabbed Onion Boy by the throat, and pressed down hard.

"Another thing," Maedhros announced. "Never provoke someone more skilled than yourself."

Onion Boy's friend was yelling for him to let go, and the recruits whispered more furiously, and Onion Boy was turning purple again, but Maedhros couldn't see or hear any of it. His mind was doing that thing again.

Everything was dark and painful. Spots flew around his vision. His hand was gone, bleeding, burning. His back strained with past whippings. Fire was engulfing him from every angle.

Then it was gone like smoke in the wind. He let go of Onion Boy's throat, stood straight slowly to accommodate a stiff spine, and looked back to the group. His vision cleared and now, just wishing to move on, began splitting the recruits into groups to practice the three-point takedown he'd just demonstrated.

The day went by faster than any day Maedhros could remember since his rescue. Recently it'd just been laying in bed, reading, practicing writing with his left hand and so forth. But now he actually had something to do, and he was grateful for it. He was grateful for the sped up time. It started to rain a few hours past midday, but Maedhros paid no mind to it - his job was more important. When the recruits asked to head inside, for food or shelter from the rain or both, Maedhros rhetorically asked if the rain would let up on the battlefield and told them to keep going. They got through quite a bit of material, too. They were efficient. Maedhros was almost proud.

Everything seemed to be going great until about an hour before dinner. The rain was starting to light up, and in its wake was a chill that swept through Maedhros like wind through the air. It sunk down into his rain-soaked clothes and left him trembling and exhausted. He was grateful the soldiers didn't notice.

"Alright," Maedhros called to the group. "We'll stop early for today. Go inside and dry yourselves off before supper."

The soldiers cheered and deposited their swords back into the racks, already shedding their armor. Maedhros pulled his cloak around his front and held it there, like a blanket, and headed inside after them. Maglor wouldn't be happy with him if he saw the state he was in. No matter. He could get to his room and change before dinner before Maglor caught him.

Onion Boy noticed, though. He'd been watching Maedhros since he was nearly killed by him, plotting his revenge in some way. And he saw how he hurried back to his room with a worried look on his face and knew exactly why. So he ran ahead of his group, dragging his friend along with him, and ran straight to Lord Maglor's office.

"My Lord!" He cried, running through the open door without knocking. Maglor looked up with a scowl. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, my Lord."

"Well, you have. Get on with it." Maglor gestured with his hand and sat back in his chair.

Onion Boy tried to look as worried as he could. "My Lord Maedhros, he- well, it was raining before, and we all asked to go inside, but he ordered us to keep going, and now I fear he is ill. He came inside soaking wet and shaking, my Lord, he did not look well."

Maglor got to his feet instantly. "Is he in his room?" He asked, and received a quick nod. "Thank you for telling me. Head off to supper, now, I don't want you getting ill too."

Onion Boy smirked and went on his way.

Maedhros, on the other hand (if you pardon the expression), was, in fact, feeling ill. The cold turned to wracking chills and not even the raging fire had made a difference. Perhaps he'd made a mistake. 

He regretted his decision to stay in the rain even more when he began sneezing furiously, more when he had to lay down in front of the fire due to dizziness, and the most when a fist came rapping on his door louder than a thousand bellowing trumpets. 

"Yeah?" He yelled, voice nasally from the clogged nose. He cringed waiting for the answer. 

"OPEN UP, MAE!"

Oh, Eru. Oh no. Oh no. Maedhros sat up, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and held onto the chair beside him as he stood. Everything was spinning. And freezing. Eru, why was it so cold? He grabbed and hugged his blanket around him as he stepped to the door, unlocked it, and allowed his brother to plow right through, holding the basket of medicines the healers had given him. For situations just like this, if Maedhros remembered correctly. 

"Care to explain?" Maglor set the basket on the small table beside one of the chairs and raised his eyebrows dangerously high. 

Maedhros pressed his lips together and looked straight up to hold back the urge to roll them. "First of all, please lower your eyebrows. They're going to fly away." 

" _Maitimo._ "

"Alright, alright." Maedhros flumped into one of the chairs and lifted his knobbly feet to warm in the fire. "I'm sorry."

"That's not an explanation." 

"Eru, it's like pulling teeth with you, isn't it?" Maedhros sighed and looked up with Maglor. He really wasn't happy. Like, 'I'm going to murder you  _right now_ ' kind of unhappy. "I'm sorry, Kano. I was just so excited to have something to do. I'm so damn bored, stuck in here! Forgive me for wanting to move my body."

Maglor finally seceded and took a seat across from him. "You're not supposed to move your body, Mae, not right now. You need rest and to be able to get healthy again. The healers already told you your immune system was in shutdown! You've got serious- what did they call it? Scoliosis, that's it, and that your legs aren't strong enough to hold you yet, and that you've lost so much blood and now you have  _deficiencies_ , and- and you've lost your hand-"

"Please stop." Maedhros groaned. Maglor looked up from where he was ticking off health concerns on his fingers to find Maedhros with his head in his hand. "Please, Kano."

"Maitimo..." Maglor shifted awkwardly, now treading with caution. As much as everyone described Maglor as graceful and pretentious, he's actually quite brazen. But upon seeing his brother's genuine hurt, he knows he'd gone too far. And, as he did when Maedhros was near death after Thangorodrim, he felt as though anything he could say would just  _break_  him, and so he wished not to say anything at all. 

"I need you to stop that," Maedhros muttered, lowering his hand and looking up. "Okay? I know I'm broken and I know I'm not healthy. I don't need you to tell me that." He paused, waiting for Maglor to say something, but his lips didn't move. Maedhros thought about what to say next, just to fill the silence. Similarly to Maglor, Maedhros hated silence, though for wildly different reasons. "I just feel as though- Lord, I hate speaking this way- I just... It brings up-  _memories_  when you say things like that. Bad ones. And I don't want to think about them, but now I'm thinking about them..."

Maglor got up sharply, startling them both. "I don't mean to do that." He breathed, sifting through the vials in the basket. "But I can't help but want to protect you. I mean, that's all you did before... before... you know." 

The fact that Maglor couldn't even say  _Angband_  or  _your capture_  set Maedhros off further, and felt flickers of disembodiment, of looking down at this room from above. "I know." Is what he managed to say, merely as a response. 

"I want you to sleep," Maglor began, on a rapidly increasing trajectory, "To rest, and I'm going to give you some vitamins and a sleeping drought. And I want no excuses because now I feel bad and I just want to help you." That gained a laugh from Maedhros, no matter how hollow, and Maglor claimed it as some victory. "Now get in bed."

Maedhros wrapped himself back up literally and mentally and wobbled over to the bed. Hmm. His vision really was blurring with the dizziness. Interesting. "Sorry for always scaring you. How'd you know I was sick, anyway? Did you see me come inside?" He asked, pulling the quilt on his bed over his thin body. 

"No." Maglor came over holding three vials and didn't continue until Maedros had downed the two of them that weren't a sleeping drought. "It was one of those recruits from your class."

Maedhros was about to sit up and rearrange his pillows but froze. "What did they look like?"

"Uh..." Maglor stared for a moment before actually thinking about it. "A young elf, Sindar, kind of short with light blond hair-"

"Damn Onion Boy!" Maedhros shouted, settling back against the bed with a huff. "Ugh, that kid is out to get me I swear- just 'cause I used him as an example! Don't trust him, Kano, I'm warning you."

Maglor stared for a minute before concluding that his brother had  _actually_  lost his mind. "Alright, enough of whatever the hell that is. Here," And he handed over the drought. Maedhros downed it in one gulp and handed Maglor back the vial. As soon as the effects set in, and that was pretty instantaneously, Maedhros grabbed Maglor's hand and sent a desperate look. 

"Can you..." He grumbled, the drug already making it hard to speak. "Stay here, stay... While I sleep...? I... the nightmares..."

"Of course." Maglor smiled back and ran a hand through his rather short hair and set aside the empty vials. "Of course. You have nothing to worry about."

Maedhros drifted off with a crooked smile on his face. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh i guess i'm back and better than ever with a fic no one asked for, oh well
> 
> Maedhros' feud with "Onion Boy" (he gets a name this chapter!) continues. the fic will probably keep going, but i'll keep the 2/2 chapter thing there for now. in case i forget about this. or uhh idk

The next time Maedhros woke, everything was dark.

It wasn't the next day, or even the night in between. He knew that for sure. Maglor wasn't beside him and the fireplace had long gone cold. He sat up hurriedly, fear winding through every fibre of his body. This place, this stone encapsulated room, was all too similar to his cell. He could hear the Uruk's footsteps outside, the distant crack of a whip, screams of the forgotten underneath him.

The heavy wooden door swung in, and Maedhros let out a cry in spite of himself. The shadow in the doorway was large, irrevocably large, and moved forward with a purpose. Maedhros swallowed saliva down his resistant throat and scrambled back in the bed, twisting though thick quilts and furs. The shadow raised its hands.

"You know me," It said, voice a deep rumble, and Maedhros jolted in surprise. He knew that voice. But who...?

"Cousin." Maedhros breathed with relief and felt exhaustion from his burst of horror. "Turukáno. You know not to startle me."

"It's Turgon now, cousin. And I am sorry, I rode in haste to get here. I hadn't the time to wait until sunup." And Turgon strode forward, grabbing a chair from the desk and sitting in it beside the raised bed. "Fingon will be behind me. We wanted to talk."

_To talk_  was never a very good connotation. Maedhros sat up regardless, perking up even more when Fingon entered, head lowered and stocky silhouette creating a bit of an intimidating shadow. He took a seat next to his brother, beside the bed, and crossed his right leg over the left.

"What is it you need of me?" Maedhros asked. His voice was too quiet, too low.

Turgon turned his head to look at Fingon expectantly, who pursed his lips for a moment and looked over Maedhros. "You told me, when you left for Himring," He started, not looking all too happy, "That you'd be resting every day until you got better. That you'd leave the rehabilitation of your hand 'till after your health was satisfactory. So why is it that now we're hearing of near weekly letters to King Thingol?"

_Hm. This is awkward._ Maedhros tried thinking of a way to explain himself without using extraneous language, and nearly failed. "My people need the Northlands."

" _Your_  people  _need_  the Northlands?" Fingon scoffed. "No offense, Mae, but you gave a fifteen minute speech when handing over the crown to my father about how your people are our people and how our family, the descendants of Finwë, are all of blood. We are united under my father. So why are you going behind our backs to make deals with the King of a separate land?"

"Why does anyone negotiate territory?" Maedhros shot back. He was used to these political debates, his father not leaving him alone when dragging him to council meetings and things of the such. "We need money, food, and trade. Without such, we will die. Whether you like it or not, we cannot survive in these foreign lands merely by force of will."

"I understand, Mae." Fingon nearly rolled his eyes. "But  _how_  did you send the letters?"

"Uh-" Maedhros swallowed again and glanced at the door. There was a chill in the air. He pulls the furs around his chest. "I brought them to one of my messengers. Once a week for the past two months."

"Let me reiterate." Turgon cleared his throat and leaned forward from the back of the chair, causing the wicker to creak. "You have one hand. Your non-dominant hand. How did you write so many letters without use of your right hand?"

Maedhros wasn't very eager to answer these questions. "Practice." He said. "I'm not very good. But I do what needs to be done."

"Oh, Lord." Fingon leaned over and rubbed his face in his hands. "I've seen your handwriting, Mae, it's that of a six-year-old's with arthritis. You're embarrassing our entire family. And you haven't even dictated someone else to write these letters? You've decided to do them all yourself?"

"Well," Maedhros huffed, "Yes."

Fingon got out of his seat to pace while Turgon let out a breathy, humored laugh. That's when Maedhros realized they weren't there to yell at him.

"He's a madman," Turgon chuckled, glancing behind himself at his brother. "It's been three months since his return. Eru, I feel like such a failure. What have  _we_  done? Patrolled our land and bided time? Meanwhile  _Lord Maedhros_  is claiming land and training his troops for war."

Maedhros avoided their gazes as Fingon paced and Turgon laughed. He hadn't realized it was such a big deal. Really, what else was he supposed to do? Sit back and watch his own army fall apart? It wasn't like him. He'd always worked like this, and some stupid health concerns surely won't stop him.

"I can't blame you." Fingon finally said. "I can't. When you're a bit more healed, I can ensure you to physically meet King Thingol to discuss the Northlands territory. Until then, please set someone to dictate your letters. We don't need you embarrassing us more."

"Truly?" Maedhros cracked a smile. "Oh, stay please, Finde. Káno has allowed me to leave my room once with a lot of complaining, and here you are talking about plans for me to leave without even asking! Would you care to reiterate to Káno?"

Fingon faltered in his smile, though, so Maedhros lost his and cocked his head. "Speaking of which," He sat back down, and Maedhros paled as he realized what he was going to say. "Why have you already gotten yourself ill? When Maglor reported to us what had happened I nearly shit myself. You do realize if you take one bad step you could just- die?"

"I think that's a little extreme," Maedhros muttered, unconvinced. "Káno exaggerates. I wasn't going to die, Finde, it was only a little cold. What did Káno-"

" _Maglor_ , Mae. Maglor and Fingon." Fingon snapped, face reddening with frustration. "You need to focus on getting better, cousin, lest your condition gets worse. And you need to remember our names, now, it's changed."

"It's all changed," Maedhros grumbled, growing frustrated too. "I just- I need time,  _Fingon_ , to understand this new world. Give me that."

"You're making excuses, Mae, and you  _know_  that I can't  _stand_  that!" Fingon got to his feet again. His face was red, up to the tips of his ears, and Maedhros found himself grow furious by that in itself. Why was he so angry with him? He was healing, he was only healing!

"Finde," Maedhros said carefully, turning his body in the bed so that his legs hung over the side. He didn't care to call Fingon as his changed name. "When I was taken, everything was chaotic and terrible and I'd thought for thirty years that I was never going to see you again. If you intend to ruin our friendship with worry and your own stress, then you'll cost yourself the alliance I have so carefully mended."

Fingon's face dropped, but not out of fear or sadness. Out of apathy. "That's all this is to you anymore? An alliance? Have you forgotten everything we've done together?"

"I'm trying to make up years of time lost preparing for a war that is already underway," Maedhros growled. His hand clenched at his side and, if he focused, he could feel his phantom right hand clenching, too. "No, I have not forgotten our time together. But I have to first keep in mind more dire issues at hand. If you'll pardon the expression."

Fingon's jaw was clenched tightly. His deep brown eyes stared unblinkingly, hollow, into Maedhros'. "I came here," His voice quivered, "To assess your condition. I should not have come at all."

He turned on his heel and made for the door. Turgon, who'd long fallen silent, raised his eyebrows expectantly at Maedhros, and a certain, familiar panic filled Maedhros. Fingon was going to leave. He didn't know for how long. He couldn't afford to assume time, not when his visits were already so scarce.

"Fin." He called. He wasn't sure his legs would hold him if he stood. But Fingon didn't turn. "Fingon, whatever you want to be called! Fingon, sit, please, let's speak as adults."

Fingon's thick hand grasped the doorknob. Maedhros couldn't allow him to leave, not when it'd been so long since his last visit. He shot out of the bed, onto legs too thin and a spine too crooked, and fell forward. Fortunately, Turgon caught him. Unfortunately, Fingon only opened the door, and Maedhros found it more important to go after him than to catch his breath.

"-Fin-" He panted, finally stumble-running to him and lunging for his body. Anything he could grasp onto he'd settle for. His hand caught the hem of Fingon's tunic, just as his knees buckled, and so he dropped down beside him, clutching the cloth with all his might as to not collapse completely.

"Must I-  _kneel_  for you, dear cousin?" Maedhros breathed, but barely, and took a second to lower his head and rasp out a few grating coughs. When he raised his head, Fingon was there, leaning over to hold him steady.

"I'm here." Fingon managed, still fuming but seeing Maedhros' weakness. He helped him stand, even, and shut the door behind him. "I am not sorry for what I said. But I will not have you hurting yourself, either."

Maedhros laughed, the impossible sound of two rocks grinding together. "I will- apologize, then. I am sorry. I was too harsh. I miss you. It is only that..." He took a deep breath, or rather, as deep as his shriveled lungs would allow, and glanced at his right nub as he placed it on Fingon's shoulder. The two of them were quite close, but Maedhros didn't care. "Kan- Maglor reminds me of my injuries so often. I am hostile when I think about it. I don't want to think about it."

Fingon then curved his lips softly with something akin to a smile. One appeared on Maedhros' scarred lips, too, by effect. "Then let's give you something as a distraction. Maglor has asked me this morning to re-count and take note of all the new recruits, would you like to walk with me?"

"I would like nothing more."

And the two of them set off, of course after Maedhros had been thoroughly covered with thick clothes and furs, and Fingon checked with Maglor as he took the book in which to count numbers. Maglor didn't seem too happy about the prospect of allowing Maedhros to waltz around Himring, especially after last time, but Maedhros pleaded enough that he was forced to. Fingon would keep him safe, anyhow.

The barracks were a drafty, chilly place. It was three connected rooms, each separate save by one door. It was crowded, too, the soldiers milling around and bumping into each other constantly. Even though it was dark outside, they seemed to be already getting ready for the day. Some had armor on, tying sword to their belts, while others were only getting out of their cots, hastily pulling on day-clothes. None of them spotted Maedhros and Fingon, not until Fingon cleared his throat and Maedhros slammed his cane twice against the stone floor.

They fell silent instantly, and one of the more-dressed ones stepped forward. "My Lord, Prince Fingon," He greeted. "Are you here for roll call?"

"Yes." Fingon nodded. "And you are?"

"Captain Nymphel, Lord Maglor's Captain. I can gather my squadron and the rest of the Captains' and meet you in the yard with a head-count. It shouldn't take more than a half-hour."

"You are a great help, Captain, thank you." Fingon nodded his appreciation and went to leave. Nymphel stepped forward again.

"Are you feeling better, my Lord?" He asked. Maedhros froze beside Fingon, nudging him with his shoulder as he went to turn. Fingon stopped and looked back. Nymphel's face flushed red upon seeing both their gazes. "I apologize. I am too personal, my Lord. It is only that it has been a week since we've seen you, and Therion has gone on and on about how ill you were."

"Therion?" Maedhros rasped, peering through the crowd. "Who is Therion?"

Nymphel sighed and turned. "Therion! Who knows where Therion is?"

A figure stepped out of the crowd, a wide smile on his face and hair the color of a ripe onion. He was fully dressed, and Maedhros did not miss the way his right hand rested over his sword.

"Good morning, sir." He said, head tilted up instead of the usual bowed head, and he met Maedhros' eyes directly. "I am Therion."

"Onion Boy." Maedhros growled lowly, low enough that the soldiers wouldn't hear but Fingon would. And then, louder, "What is your business telling everyone my health, soldier? My matters are not for you to share."

"I'm sorry, sir." Therion bowed his head now, but retained eye contact. Maedhros met it with more fire.

"That's my Lord, soldier."

"I'm sorry, my Lord." Therion replaced. Captain Nymphel noticed the stare-off that was going on and stepped in front of Therion before he could say or do anything stupider.

"It won't happen again, Lord Maedhros." Nymphel swallowed, bowing his head normally. "I will meet you in the courtyard in a half hour."

Fingon pulled Maedhros away hurriedly, and back down that dank hall they went, silent and jittery with frustration. 

Mid-way to the courtyard, Maedhros had to pause to rest his back and lungs. The brace he was still told to wear was tight and constricting, so even as it straightened his spine his lungs struggled to work. Fingon was patient with him.

"You're sure you're all right?" Fingon rubbed his shoulder and cooed in his ear. "You're pale. Do we need to go back to your quarters?"

"No. No, I'm- fine." Maedhros stood up, rolling his shoulders back carefully. "Let's go."

They started off again, up the short staircase and into the open air. A rush of cold air hit them, winter air beginning to blow in. Maedhros wished the winter wasn't terrible; it was his first one since Angband, and he didn't remember much of the weather before. Fingon stood closer to him, rubbing his arms to warm him, even while he was wearing large coats of fur.

"You should be wearing a hat," Fingon commented. "Your hair is too short now, you're going to get cold."

"I'm fine, Fin," Maedhros chuckled, always made a little happier in his friend's presence. "Truly. You worry like my mother, I can handle a little cold."

"Well," Fingon mocked offense. "Next time you come outside make sure you wear one."

Maedhros rolled his eyes. "Sure."

They waited out in the cold for a few more minutes before Maedhros suggested they spar, lightly of course. Fingon didn't love that idea, but Maedhros pressed himself close and pleaded prettily until Fingon agreed to a very careful spar.

"Do you know how to hold the sword in your left hand?" Fingon asked, handing him a wooden practice sword. Maedhros pursed his lips and shook his head. "Alright. Here." Fingon lodged his own sword in the dirt and maneuvered Maedhros' large but still frail hand. "Yeah. This way. No, the thumb over here."

"Mm." Maedhros grunted. "It's uncomfortable."

"It will be for a while, I'd assume." Fingon stepped back and took up his own sword, but paused when he looked at it. In a swift motion, Fingon switched the sword from his left hand to his right and held it out in a starting stance. "I'll switch hands too, alright? We can relearn together."

Maedhros smiled, warmth filling his chest. What did he do to deserve Fingon? "Okay. Let's begin."

Fingon made the first attack, something that Maedhros was able to easily block. But then Fingon was coming at him again, and he had to work to parry the slashes each time. It was slow, and very gentle hits, but his body didn't move the way it used to. His knees creaked and ached with each step and movement, not used to his full weight. He usually walked with the cane.

But he was determined not to stop for the sake of a little pain. After so long in confinement, he was used to pain. It no longer deterred him the way it used to, which may be a good thing or a bad thing. Regardless, he sped up his simple parries and was able to get in a few swings of his own. Fingon smirked and, thinking he was more healed than he probably was, sped up too. Maedhros heaved breaths at the beginner's spar, beginning to panic a bit. But still he wouldn't stop. He couldn't.

A hit collided with his practice sword a little harder than usual, jarring his arm. He sent back a slash, but the movement unhinged something in his shoulder and the sword dropped from his arm. The pain pulsed through his entire body, and he couldn't stop the cry that passed his lips.

"Fuck-" He spat. Fingon's face went blank with sudden fear, and Maedhros stepped back, trying not to worry him more. But his knees locked in that movement, and he fell back. He was barely able to catch himself before he hit the dirt, lowering himself down after rather than try standing.

Fingon threw his sword to the side and crouched beside Maedhros. "Fuck, Mae. Are you alright? What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine." Maedhros groaned. "My shoulder just- ngh- somethings wrong."

In a pause, Maedhros gingerly rolled his arm back, pinpointing each of the little pops and strains. He knew where the pain was coming from, but he didn't know how to fix it.

"This was a bad idea." Fingon was grumbling. "Eru, how could I let you do this? Stay- stay here, Mae, I'll be right back. I'll get a healer."

"Wait- wait!" Maedhros sat up and turned as Fingon ran back into the fortress, leaving him on the hard ground. Fin at least could've brought him  _with_  him, to see the healer, instead of ditching him outside.

"Well this is a funny sight."

Maedhros turned quickly, too fast, hurting his back and crying out. When he righted himself and looked up to the voice, his day got a whole lot worse.

"Onion boy," He growled.

"My Lord," Therion drawled back, hand on his sword again. Papers were clasped in his other hand. "Captain Nymphel sent me out with the roster filled out. What a surprise for me to find you on the ground. Do you need help, my Lord?"

The  _way_  that boy said  _my Lord_... Maedhros sat up, but then realized that he couldn't stand. He didn't have the strength. So he sat in the dirt, glaring at his subject. "Give it to me. The roster," Maedhros extended his arm. Therion smirked.

"I will." He said, as though he wouldn't. "When you apologize to me."

Maedhros' eyes flared. "Apologize! For  _what_?"

The nerve he had! Maedhros didn't know how to react, never having had one of his subjects act this way. It certainly didn't help that Maedhros was stuck on the ground, needing something from him.

"For trying to kill me." Therion went on.

Ah. Maedhros flushed red, a bit embarrassed at being confronted so strongly with that. He hadn't regretted it at the time, but now, looking at Therion with his high-necked tunic and darkened eyes, he knew he'd fucked up a bit. "I-  _you_  had provoked me. I was showing you a lesson."

Therion scowled and pulled down the neck of his tunic. A clearly made handprint was bruised into the side of his throat. "By fucking choking me? Is that how you teach your subjects?" He let go of the tunic and it rested back on his neck, hiding the bruise. "I knew you'd be messed in the head when you came back. Everyone kept saying how strong you were, but I knew. I knew."

Maedhros didn't like the way this conversation was going. "No one returns from Angband the same."

"No one's ever returned from Angband," He shot back. "Apologize for trying to kill me."

Maedhros choked down a swallow and tried evening out his breaths. But he couldn't open his mouth. He couldn't make himself do it.

"You know, I considered sabotaging you." Therion was saying, seeing Maedhros' reluctance. "Like, making you sick or something. Then I saw you after training and figured telling your brother was enough. And then I saw how long you were bedridden. I figured making you sick would just kill you, am I right? Since you're barely healing as it is."

Was that a threat? "Are you planning on killing me, soldier?" Maedhros met his eyes again. His stare was cold.

"Of course not. I'm not you." Therion rolled his eyes nonchalantly and crossed his arms. "I'm just saying I expect an apology. Maybe a thank you too, while you're at it. For me sparing you."

He was slowly molding into something too familiar, in Maedhros' eyes. His old Master's tricks and degrading words, demanding the sacrifice of Maedhros' dignity. It cut deeper than Therion might have realized, and made his right wrist ache.

"No." Maedhros said. "You're not getting either."

Therion's already fiery eyes widened and a smirk curled up his lips. "I was hoping you'd drag this out longer than it had to be. I love drama."

In a single movement, before Maedhros could see it coming, Therion kicked the nub of Maedhros' right wrist with the steel toe of his boot. Maedhros screamed the second it made contact and fell over, curled in on his arm in agony. He didn't even register it in his mind when Therion leaned over and put a hand lightly on his side, sitting down next to him.

"Someone help!" He shouted, pitifully and desperately. Maedhros didn't hear it, but he did feel the two other bodies that ran to him and began to shift him and move him. He cried out and pressed his eyes shut.

"Mae, Mae, what happened?" Fingon's voice came throaty above him, terrified. "You just- I got a healer, I-  _Mae_ -"

Maedhros was able to open his eyes to squint up at Fingon. His arm was being cloven in two again, everything hurt, mud soaked into his furs and seeped into his skin. He couldn't manage any words, only seeing Fingon's contorted face.

"...Need to get him inside... healer's quarters..." Was all Maedhros could catch from the second body, and his eyes pressed shut again as strong arms jostled him. A warm chest curled around him, and from that he could grasp some semblance of warmth.

That dreary, weak darkness was blanketing him again. It pulled him away from reality, away from pain, and he was glad for it, but he had no control over it. In just a moment, he was disconnected from consciousness. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> at this point I’m really just going with it. not really plot-based, not really an arc, just a bunch of stories that fit together. 
> 
> This time: not a lot of Onion Boy, but Maedhros travels to Doriath and meets with Thingol. Somewhat based on this post:  
> https://egg-bird.tumblr.com/post/177188376885/mirkwoodminstrel-alia-andreth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long chapter! sorry not sorry

For two weeks, Maedhros woke violently from his sleep.

It was always the same dream: Starting off chained spread-eagle in his cell, then flashing through images of blood and savagery, then it always ended with the cliffs, those stale, methane-riddled lands. The stone was always so hot the air around it wavered, which didn't help when the hallucinations set in. Then Fingon was there with that monstrous eagle, crying as he rent the flesh of his arm, apologizing through sputtering tears. Maedhros screamed and screamed, and always woke as soon as arm was freed from the tendons and bones of his hand.

This time, he was already out of bed when he woke. He must've fallen out in his waking, because when his eyes finally faded into seeing, he caught the low, flickering flames of the fire. The cold stone was pressing into his sweat-soaked tunic and pants, and for a moment, he just laid there, huffing breaths.

He lifted his arm. Since Therion, that damn fool, had kicked him, Maedhros had had more severe and troubling pain in his wrist. They had to stitch it closed again, and later cauterize it, so the pain was relived. Sometimes, when Maedhros looked at that blunt, grotesque wound, he resented Fingon. Then he forgot about it.

Fingon had left for his father's camp again only two days after arriving, but said he planned to be back in a week and a half to travel with him to King Thingol's court. Maedhros paused in his thought. That was today.

"Maedhros?" A knock came at the door. Maedhros sat up instantly and got himself to stand, holding onto the bed for support. "Fingon's arrived."

"Yes, Káno, one moment," Maedhros grunted, already moving about to get dressed. He doubted Maglor would listen, and he didn't, because a second later, Maedhros' door was opening and a black-and-gold braided head was peering through.

"Mae," Fingon's voice was a bit nasally, and even though he saw Maedhros dressing hurriedly he entered. "How are you feeling?"

Maedhros turned his head away as he secured the ties to his tunic. At least he'd gotten the clothes on before being barged in on, this time. "Fine," He grabbed the asymmetrical cloak and furs resting on the back of his chair and pulled it over himself. "You sound ill."

Fingon shrugged and plopped himself on the plush bed. "A little bit. But it's nothing to worry over-" A loud cough, and Maedhros jolted in surprise. "Sorry. I'm fine."

Maedhros raised an eyebrow but moved on anyway. He couldn't get the leather strip tied to keep his furs in place. "Can you help me with this?"

Fingon nodded and hopped to his feet. He slipped off his gloves to tie it. His hands were warm when they brushed against Maedhros'.

After Maedhros had adorned himself with his copper circlet and tucked his feet into large boots, the two of them left the room. Maedhros wished it was summer. Bad timing that he had to return right as the winter began. Fortunately, snow hadn't yet fallen. Unfortunately, the ground was freezing and Maedhros' boots and cane had very little traction on ice.

"Hey, Maedhros." Maglor must've been calling him for a while. He hadn't noticed, but when he turned, arms were already being wrapped around him. "Be safe," Maglor muttered. "Be safe."

"I will, Káno." Maedhros whispered back, pulling away. Maglor's face was flushed red, and his eyes were dimmer and scrunched up. "I'll be fine, little brother. Don't lose sleep over this, I'm coming back in a week or so. Probably less than that."

"I'll protect him," Fingon's nasally voice came from behind them. "Now come on, Mae, the caravan awaits."

With some resistance, Maedhros pried himself away from Maglor and followed Fingon down the dim halls of Himring and into the yard, where a group of twenty or so Nolofinwean men sat on horses. Maedhros hadn't yet considered raising and claiming a horse of his own since his return, and this would be the first time he'd sat on one since his capture, so he was nervous, to say the least. Fingon handed him the reins to a strong young stallion with feathered ankles and a braided mane. His large eyes stared judgementally at Maedhros, knowing his anxiety. Animals always knew more about him than he ever did.

"Hello," Maedhros offered his hand, tucking the cane under his arm. The stallion snorted and gnashed his teeth, but he didn't bite him, so Maedhros considered it good enough. Fingon helped him onto his back. The air stood still for a moment. Maedhros sat stiffly. Then the stallion shook his head and snorted again, and time moved on.

"What am I to do about the reins?" Maedhros asked, as Fingon mounted his own palomino horse. "With my- hand."

"Well, normally, I suppose." Fingon glanced over and clicked his tongue to start off, so Maedhros followed suit and took up his reins. The cane was able to be tucked nicely into the loop at the top of the stirrups. "You'll be fine," Fingon said.

Surprisingly, he was. As they moved from the yard into the valley below, Maedhros found riding not nearly as frightening as he'd thought. It all came rushing back to him when he sat back against the worn leather of the saddle, feeling each movement of the animal's muscles. Unfortunately, Maedhros had to pass by the training soldiers in their path to Doriath, where one figure was standing still, watching.

"Good luck, my Lord!" He shouted, a wide, nauseatingly fake smile on his lips. His onion-colored hair was slicked back with sweat. Maedhros watched with a set expression, not wanting to give him any satisfaction from any look he could give. So he just lifted his chin and turned back to the front wordlessly. Fingon'd noticed the exchange and stared in amused confusion.

"Why don't you respond?" Fingon asked through a taut smile.

"I don't want to goad him on." Maedhros rolled his eyes, finally tured away completely. "Don't acknowledge him, you'll give him the satisfaction he wants." Maedhros remembered what he'd said:  _"I was hoping you'd drag this out longer than it had to be. I love drama."_

Fingon ignored that and turned away. Maedhros watched his back.   
  


For a few hours, Maedhros could manage to stay still and watch Fingon's back. Then hours pressed into a full day, and Maedhros was growing tired and bored. Since he'd gotten back, he'd been looking to  _do_  things, to travel and work and live like he hadn't for thirty years. But now that he was traveling, he was hating every second of it. It was so  _boring_ , what was he even supposed to do? Whistle to himself? Chat with men he'd never met? Fingon was always talking to them anyway. He couldn't get a word in if he tried. What was wrong with him? He used to be so popular back in Valinor, back before his capture, why didn't anyone pay attention to him?

His black stallion stepped into a puddle, and for a brief second, Maedhros caught sight of his marred, lopsided face. Is that really how he looked? He'd avoided mirrors since Gorthaur began his torture, to avoid the reality of his appearance, but now, as he saw himself... He could understand why no one made an effort to talk to him. How did Fingon even manage it? How did anyone?  
  


Doriath was a huge, terrible place.

The caravan stopped outside the main gates of the city, now in the middle of the forest. It had been a terribly long ride, and though Maedhros just wanted to get off his horse and stretch his stiff muscles, the forest was making eerie croaking noises at every turn. It looked cursed. The air smelt like poison and death and the sodden earth was riddled with earthworms. Then again, the gates were great and golden and the forest beyond it was neat and fresh.

"Who comes upon our Kingdom?" A voice called. Fingon dismounted from his horse and helped Maedhros down from his, and the two of them approached the gate.

"The party of Maedhros and Fingon," Fingon said, hand on the hilt of his sword. "I have sent a request a week ago, King Thingol expects us."

The guard looked over the two of them, and the caravan behind them, and opened the large golden gates. A whoosh of fresh air swept over Maedhros, and he had to stop and pause before setting off after Fingon.

Inside Doriath was a living, breathing paradise. Maedhros remembered the gardens of Vána, visited in his childhood. And that was a fair comparison, since the Maia Melian resided here. The trees rose around them in natural archways, golden and bright, and leaves scattered the ground in a patterned carpet. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn't a harsh winter chill like Himring.

In front of them opened up a massive, intimidating castle. It, again, was nothing like Himring, but it was also nothing like the one back in Valinor, upon Tirion. It blended in with the forest, caged in vines and curled around caves and hills, but was clearly a castle. Fingon tightened his grip on Maedhros' arm, and with a deep breath, they stepped into the castle.

"Sirs." An elf to their right appeared before they could even look around. He beckoned them forward, and into one of the smaller, winding halls. "The King is waiting."

The walk was brief and confusing. The halls were set up so that no outsider could navigate them alone, and that in itself scared Maedhros. He'd experienced things like that before, purposefully winding halls to twist around the mind.

"In here, sirs." Their guide stopped abruptly, gesturing into a large dining room. Inside was a fully set table, long and mahogany and intimidating, with an impossibly tall figure standing beside the head. Maedhros felt out of place instantly. This was the same as when he'd been brought to a banquet in Angband, washed and prepared nicely, then-

Fingon placed a hand on his shoulder blade to usher him forward. Their guide departed.

"Ah," The tall man said, walking forward. There was a crystal goblet of red wine in his slender hand, while the other was extended in a handshake. "If it isn't Fingon the Valiant and Maedhros the Tall, here in my land."

There was no, "It's a pleasure", or "Good to have you". It was blunt, cold. That's what Elu Thingol was: cold and blunt. He was  _large_ , too, not tall and gangly the way Maedhros was, but wide-shouldered and broad-chested. His hair rested softly, snowy, on the stiff shoulders of his robe. Everything about him was terrifying, intimidating, threatening. And yet Maedhros wasn't scared at all. This wasn't Angband. Thingol was not Sauron. He could handle this.

"An honor to meet you, King Thingol." Maedhros didn't pause to shake his hand, instead glancing down at his extended gesture and laughing. "I apologize about that," He lifted his right arm slightly, in its sling. "I haven't the hand to greet you. If we may begin?"

"Straight to the point." Thingol dropped his hand and looked over Fingon. A scowl came over his face. "Are you ill, Prince Fingon?"

Fingon's ears flushed red. "N-no sir, it is nothing but a head cold. The winter is effecting me already."

Thingol wasn't listening. He called in the guide again. "Escort the Prince to the healing ward and see to it that he does not infect any of my people. We cannot risk an illness now."

Fingon looked like he was going to cry as the guide led him out of the room. He sent a desperate look to Maedhros, and an apologetic one, but Maedhros couldn't risk asking for him to stay. He needed to speak to Thingol alone. So he sent an apologetic look back and turned back around. As soon as the door shut, He steeled himself and took a seat directly to the right of the head of the table.

"You really do not do small talk, so you?" Thingol chuckled, the sound of wind chimes, and sat as well.

"I have no time for small talk." Maedhros leaned his cane against the table and folded his hand across his lap. "If we may begin, King Thingol? The Northlands. I must discuss their importance to the Noldor people."

Thingol raised his eyebrows. "They do not belong to the cursed Noldor. They belong to me and the natives here, and the importance is inconsequential. You have land. Keep it."

Maedhros sighed. "Yes, sir, but our settlements are growing. And not only the Fëanorians, not even my army - that of the High King and the other royal Noldor are expanding. On top of that, Morgoth attacks near weekly, and he is growing bolder. If we do not have the land to fortify, then we are all doomed. I understand your... hatred for my people, but Morgoth is a larger threat, a  _realer_  threat. He does not separate Noldor from natives, he conquers and destroys."

Thingol listened patiently, his monotonous expression never changing. However, when Maedhros was finished, Thingol let out a breathy laugh. "So this is about your vendetta against the Enemy, as you call him. You want the Northlands to fight Morgoth."

Maedhros narrowed his eyes. "Well, yes," He said, obviously. "This is War. That's the point."

Thingol cocked his head. "You really call squabbles and petty battles War? Enough to feel the need to claim my land?"

Maedhros tried wrapping his head around that logic but couldn't. "King Thingol, just two days past Morgoth captured one of your forts. You lost men, you lost good, hardworking soldiers. You don't consider this war?"

"How do you know about the captured fort?"

The door opened; servers walked through. Maedhros smirked just slightly, not answering as pots of stew and plates of meats were set down. Fortunately, the food was placed on the plates for them. Unfortunately, Maedhros was yet to come off his diet of oil-based bread, broth, water and soft vegetables. The thick venison steak that was set in front of him would not suit his weak stomach.

"No thank you," He raised his only hand as the server went to place the food on his plate.

"You refuse my food?" Thingol frowned. Maedhros swallowed.

"I cannot eat it." Maedhros tried lifting his chin to spite the embarrassment. "I have not yet waned off soup and broth."

Thingol laughed, then realized he was serious and narrowed his eyes, confused and surprised. It was a strange look on him. "Ah. Well," He looked to the servers, "Get the man some bread."

The server set the bowls and plates on the table and exited the room in a hurry. Thingol was, meanwhile, staring down Maedhros with inquisitive eyes. Maedhros met them with an equally strong gaze.

"How long have you been back?" Thingol's voice was hushed. Maedhros almost recoiled. Was he concerned?

"Just over three months," Maedhros answered. Thingol's eyebrows rose again, still surprised.

"And you traveled to Doriath?" He inquired. "You look - if you would not take offense - haggard. Should you not still be bedridden?"

"Technically." Maedhros didn't love the conversation. "But I have work to do. My people count on me for leadership and strategy. If I say traveling to Doriath would gain us the upper hand in War, then my healing can wait."

"You Noldor are... fascinating." Thingol remained straight-faced. "Even now you do not stop working. I can respect that."

The doors opened again. That was quick. A steaming bowl was placed in front of Maedhros, along with a smaller plate of bread. The servers departed quickly, and Thingol stared them down as they did so.

"Onto business." Maedhros leaned forward against the table. "Enough personal talk for now, I've come to discuss one thing. The Northlands."

Thingol groaned slightly. So then Maedhros' suspicions were right: he was trying to divert the conversation to avoid talking about the Northlands. "You are really set on that aren't you? Those letters, the in-person visit. Your determination is exhausting."

"As I've said, I need them. My people need them." Maedhros didn't falter in his stare, even as Thingol began to eat. "I mean to leave here with the rights to those lands, King Thingol."

Thingol chewed the steak, swallowed, and took a sip of wine. He looked barely invested in the conversation. "Alright," He said. "Why? Tell me why."

Hm. Maybe he was considering it. "As I started to say before, Morgoth does not determine who the people are before killing or capturing them. He simply kills. You are in danger in this War, too, King Thingol, and if you think otherwise then I suggest you walk outside. The assaults upon all elves are brutal and carnal, and I know factually that alliances and working together are the only way we have a chance at winning this. I have seen first-hand the cruelties of Morgoth and his servants, I have  _experienced_  the brutality they practice daily. I know how to use that land best. I know how Morgoth attacks, his strategies, and tactics. I know how to combat him precisely."

Thingol looked up from his meal to look over Maedhros. "You've seen his plans?"

Maedhros averted his gaze then, staring down at the bowl of broth. But it was yet another reminder that he was broken and sick, so he turned back up. "Yes." He managed. "Between- When I was able to sneak about, between the, uh... sessions, I raided the files and papers the Lieutenant of Morgoth kept. I was often kept in the throne room, too, and I heard all the plans that came through. At the time, it was torturous, but I know now what Morgoth's style is. I know how to predict him."

"You know," Thingol said immediately, "I hated you, coming in here. But I think I understand you now." He stood abruptly from his seat. "Come with me. We need a more private setting."

Maedhros took a quick bite of the bread and stood, going to follow Thingol out.

"By all means, bring the bread." He gestured to the table. "We don't want you starving in my Kingdom. Get it, eat it. Now come."

Maedhros followed him out the back corner door of the dining room and into a smaller, thinner hallway. The walls were made of glossy, polished stone, and as the sconces painted wavering shadows Maedhros shivered. There was something dark about his place, something secret. He didn't like it.

The hall opened up into an open-air room overlooking the top of the forest. In the center was a massive, wooden table, carved in the shape of the Kingdom of Doriath. Maedhros approached it with stifled excitement, wanting to look at it up close. The craftsmanship was incredible, impeccable. Thingol smirked at his expression and patted the solid wood of the table.

"This," He said, "Is Doriath. My Kingdom. Over there is the Northlands." He pointed. "And past this corner is Beleriand, your Himring. The black border is the beginning of Morgoth's lands."

Maedhros saw it. A chill wavered down his back and he leaned more on his cane for balance. "Why have you brought me in here?" He turned up to Thingol. He finished the bread and then leaned against the table, debating whether he should release his arm from the sling. It was stiff and sore.

Thingol bent over the bold black line of Morgoth. "You are a valuable asset to me, Maedhros." His smirk was devious. "I do hate your people, I do. The Noldor are infallibly idiotic, brash, and their trust is brittle as glass, not to mention the Curse you brought upon yourselves. Never can I think of allying myself with you, I wouldn't dream of it, but you have information unparalleled in terms of Morgoth. You  _knew_  him. You lived in his walls. Or on them, I suppose." A dark chuckle. Maedhros did not join in. "I need you to give me information of where Morgoth will strike, how, and where after that. I need you to help me plan where to place forts, what to arm them with, and how I should train my soldiers. Even though you're Noldor, I trust your thoughts of Morgoth. For this, I will give you the Northlands."

Maedhros' heart stuttered. "You're sure?" He breathed. "For information, you'll- oh."

A thought sprung into his mind, a reminder of something terrible. This is exactly what used to be done to him in his containment, when Sauron would ask for information about his brothers and what his army was doing. It was always an unfair trade, for more food or looser bonds, and never worth it. But now... This was the difference between life and death. This reward would put him at an advantage to Morgoth, it would give him and his people a chance at winning. He couldn't pass it up. And yet- there was that nagging voice in his head, the one that'd been there since his imprisonment, telling him not to do it, that it was dangerous, that it was a trap and he'd be hurt.

"I'll do it." Maedhros blurted, against his better judgment. "Under one condition."

Thingol raised an eyebrow and stood straight, hands behind his back.

Something vile coursed through Maedhros' veins. His head was foggy with nausea and dizziness. "We must do it all right now, and I am allowed to hold back information dire to my people."

Thingol paused. "Right now?"

"Right now." Maedhros sharpened his gaze so Thingol knew he meant what he was saying. "And if you ask a question I cannot answer without endangering my people, I will not answer. Are we in agreement? I will leave if you are not, and come back another time to discuss the Northlands again."

Thingol stared at Maedhros another moment, eventually nodding. "Yes." He said. "We are in agreement."

The two of them stood still, in a stare-off. Thingol expected him to begin.

"We need a contract," Maedhros said, as if it were obvious. Thingol didn't move, so Maedhros sighed, placed his cane against the table, and untied his arm from the sling to stretch it. Maybe seeing his grotesquely severed arm would motivate him.

It did. Thingol clapped his hands twice and a second door to their right opened. The servant took one look at Thingol and nodded, running off without shutting the door behind him. Maedhros could hear bustling down the hall. He wondered what was down there.

"You are a strange man, Lord Maedhros." Thingol tipped his head back. That was the first time he'd ever used Maedhros' title. "You are so untrustworthy it baffles me, but then again, I have not been..." He trailed off, his eyes rolling down to Maedhros' blunt arm.

"You will get used to it."

The servant returned with paper and vials of ink and quills, along with two chairs (the poor boy), and Maedhros didn't wait before dictating the contract for the servant to write. Maedhros needed the power to be in his hands. He couldn't allow himself to be pulled into another dangerous deal. He couldn't allow himself to be weak ever again.   


Hours later, the contract was made and signed and Maedhros had given a huge bout of information to Elu Thingol, who in then gave Maedhros the rights to the Northlands. The sun dropped low in the sky and was nearly gone by the time the two of them decided to call it a day and keep the amount of table enough for then.

"I would like to get home soon," Maedhros said, but glanced outside and frowned. "I suppose tomorrow morning must do. You have rooms for us to sleep in?"

Thingol ushered them through that thin hallway to the dining room again and shut the door behind them. "Isn't it just you?"

Maedhros blinked. "And Prince Fingon. We came in a company, King Thingol."

"Ah." Thingol stretched his arms before setting himself down at the head of the dining table. "That's right. I can show you to your rooms after dinner, then. We have been working for hours, you must rest."

Maedhros looked to the door as servers walked through, and shook his head. "I am not hungry. I think I'll go to my rooms and retire for the night, now, if you don't mind."

Thingol waved his hand. "Of course not. Go, sleep well." And he gestured for a servant to show him out, and with a last bow of his head, Maedhros departed. In the wake of his departure, Thingol called a servant forward. "Call on our Lady Melian to join me."

Maedhros followed closely behind his guide, not wanting to get lost in the maze of hallways and arches. He asked to be taken to Fingon, but the guide assured him he was already in Maedhros' rooms waiting. Maedhros didn't know what to think of that. Did Thingol think they were... Nevermind.

Walking towards them, in a rather wide hall with bright sconces, was a woman that made Maedhros stop dead in his tracks. He knew who she was (who wouldn't?), but he didn't think he'd see her on his visit to Doriath, much less have to encounter her without Thingol. She was even more beautiful and ethereal in person, and that was saying something. Her hair was braided back partially, allowing him to see her pale and rosy-cheeked face. The black of her hair was deep as the darkest pits of the earth and made the cuffs of gold around her braids brighter than stars. Her eyes glowed with a light not from this world, her dress brushed and swept the floor like tendrils as she walked, and on her shoulders perched nightingales, small and quiet and pressing into her soft touch. When she looked up, Maedhros felt his heart shoot up his throat. He wasn't even  _attracted_  to women and he was terrified.

Melian stopped in slow motion. Everything she did seemed to be in slow motion. "Maedhros." Her voice was honey and summer sun. "Maedhros the Tall, Lord of Himring. A pleasure."

She extended her hand. Maedhros stared at it for a second, baffled as to why she'd ever want to acknowledge him, and but after Melian chuckled with mirth Maedhros hurried to shake it. She'd even offered  _her_  left hand, to accommodate him. He couldn't offend  _her_. "Queen Melian. I- It is an honor to meet you. Long have I heard of your power and control of this forest. I walked in your gardens in the light of the Trees long ago, in my youth."

Melian smiled warmly at that. It made Maedhros feel like he was breathing in fire. "I have heard you have a way with words," She said, amused. "Are you off to bed so soon?"

That seemed to remind Maedhros of his painful, aching back. "Ah, if you would like me to join you, then..."

Melian stared at him a moment. Was he being rude? He should have been more willing. "You are in pain." Her stare deepened. Something in him seemed to burst open to reveal itself, and Maedhros let out a gasp. Melian stepped closer to him. The nightingales chirped.

"May I?" Melian had a slender hand extended.

Maedhros had no idea what she was about to do. "Of course."

Her hand pressed into the small of his back, gentle but firm. Maedhros let out another gasp unintentionally, but Melian only smiled and placed a second hand over his chest, where his right arm hung in a sling. In a moment, the pain that'd previously ruffled Maedhros' body constantly was gone. Just... gone.

"What did you-" Maedhros breathed, moving his arm a bit. No jolts of pain, nothing straining or feeling like it's going to pop. It was a miracle. "What did you do?"

"Lessened your pain." Melian brought her hands away and smiled. "It will last through the night, but no longer. If you would like, I can try to heal you and fix your arm in the morning. You are in a great deal of unnecessary pain."

"I couldn't trouble you." Maedhros shook his head. Was she really offering that?

"I must insist," Melian leaned over towards him a bit. "I hate seeing your kind in pain."

"Then I would be honored." Maedhros bowed his head.

"Good night, then, Lord Maedhros." Melian waved her hand and started off again. Her hair sparkled as she turned. Maedhros lifted his right arm to wave back, but she was already gone, walking away down the hallway. After a pause and a nudge from the guide, Maedhros started off again to his rooms. 

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanon: Maedhros is really bad at learning names and just assigns characteristics to people in order to remember them. Thus, Onion Boy.


End file.
